THE LOSS OF THE TRIO BY MR WARDLE

THE LOSS OF THE TRIO.

THE STORM FIEND LAUGHED IN ALL HIS WILD DELIGHT,

AS HOWLING WINDS AND BATTLING BILLOWS TORE,

WITH ALL THE FURY OF THE NETHER WORLD,

ALONG THE TURMOIL OF THE SURF-SWEPT SHORE.

AND IT DID SEEM THAT HE WAS GOD OF ALL,

OR, LEGENDARY GOD’S BOW’D KNEE TO HIM,

WHO HELD HIS GRASP O’ER LAND AND FARTHEST SEA,

AND BADE THE ELEMENTS OBEY HIS WHIM.

ON, ON, STILL ON, INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH,

INTO THE BREAKERS OF THAT CREUL SEA;

WHILST WILD WAVES RAVED WITH MAD & HELLISH LUST,

AND TORE ALONG THE SHORE WITH FIENDISH GLEE.

ON, ON, SHE DROVE, UNTIL AT LAST SHE STRUCK,

AND EV’RY SHIV’RING TIMBER FORETOLD DEATH,

AND ANXIOUS THOUSANDS CRIED UNTO THE FOAM-

AND OTHERS BIT THEIR LIPS WITH BATED BREATH,

WE SAW A LIFEBOAT IN THE DISTANT SPRAY,

AND IN OUR HEARTS A RAY OF HOPE UPROSE,

AS SOMETIMES IN THE DEATH OF STORM AND STRIFE,

WE SEE SOME GOD TRIUMPHING O’ER HIS FOES.

BUT ALL OUR IMAGED THOUGHTS OF HOPE WERE VAIN,

AND STILL THE VESSEL DROVE UNTO HER DOOM,

WHILST FRUITLESS ROCKETS HISSED AGAINST THE SKY,

AND PLUNGED THE WATCHING SOULS IN DEEPER GLOOM.

‘TIS NOT FOR US TO SAY THAT SOMEONE FAILED,

IN THAT DIRE MOMENT OF EXTERNAL WOE,

OR THAT THE HEART OF ENGLISHMEN HAD QUAILED,

AND LOST THE OLD AND SYMPATHETIC GLOW.

OUR STRICTURES MAY BE RIGHT, OR MAY BE WRONG,

O GOD IN HEAVEN THE HORROR OF THAT SIGHT,

THE PITY, THE IMMEASUREABLE GRIEF,

TO SEE OUR FELLOWS DROWNING WHLST THE RIGHT.

TO SAVE THEM RESTED ALL WITHIN OUR HANDS,

AND WE WERE HELPLESS WHILST THE RAGING SEA,

SWEPT WITH REMORSELESS FURY O’ER THE BARQUE,

SO FORLORN IN IT’S UTTER MISERY

THE MASTS WENT ONE BY ONE – AS ROCKETS HISSED,

AND A LOW WAIL SURGED UPWARD FROM THE CROWD,

AS EACH MISSED IT’S TARGET, AND A GLOOM,

ON ALL DID SETTLE AS A DARK’NING SHROUD.

THEN TIMBERS PARTED, AND THE RAORING WAVES,

SWEPT WITH SUCH VENGEANCE THAT ATHOUSAND YEARS,

OF CALM AND PEACE AND SUNSHINE ON THE SEA,

WILL NOT ERASE THE MEMORY OF OUR TEARS.

THEN ALL WAS CHAOS – FALLING SPAR AND BALK,

AND TIMBER CRASHED WITHIN THE SEETHING SWELL,

AND STRAINING EYEBALLS ALMOST BURST FOR GLIMPSE,

OF SOME SOUL STRUGGLING IN THAT AWFUL HELL.

THE ROCKETS FAILED – THE LIFEBOATS WERE NOT THERE,

BUT THERE WERE SOME WHO HAD WITHIN THEIR BREASTS

THE BLOOD OF OUR FOREFATHERS, AND WHO DARED,

THE ANGRY BUFFETS OF THE WAVES’ WILD CRESTS.

AS HEROES IN THAT ELEMENTARY STRIFE,

WHEN WIND AND SEA RAGED, WITH A FEARFUL RAGE,

THEY FOUGHT TO SAVE ALLTHOSE WHO COULD BE SAVED,

AND MADE A BRIGHT SPOT ON A DARKSOME PAGE.

LET US REMEMBER THOSE FEW HEROES WHO,

UPHELD THE CHERISHED NAME OF MOTHERLAND,

WHEN ALL OUR SERVICE MISERABLY FAILED,

UPON THAT STORM-TOSSED DESOLATED STRAND.

By John E Wardle, 

West Hartlepool,

Nov 14, 1901.

The poem appeared in the Northern Daily Mail.

NOTE. A Mr J Wardle was present at the presentation of the 6 gold medals to the Trio rescuers. It is not known at present if he was who wrote the above item.